There they go again. There I go again. I sit at the piano and I begin to play. The notes pour from my fingers; I start to feel weight being lifted off my shoulders. But they, my parents, they don't stop. They're yelling, quarreling. I play louder to drown them out. It works better than an iPod; it's all me, not the singer. I don't know how long the yelling is going to last. A day, a week, a year? All I know is that when I press the keys, I feel better. I feel heard, even when no one is listening to the music I'm making. I don't care. I just keep playing.

It's like a movie, when someone is playing an instrument and you hear raised voices in the background. That's what it is like. Their yelps and shouts are muted, and the music is the center of focus. My frustration is let out through near-perfection of the song. It sounds good, but even I'm not listening anymore. I just keep playing.

Is it over? I stop at the end of the song to listen. It's quiet; they must have stopped. Thank goodness. I didn't have much song left in me to play.


I play when I'm frustrated. I play when I'm bored. I play when I'm avoiding doing other work. It's an escape. Once a chore, but now a pastime. It's nice. I can let myself go in the song and my emotions come out in the beauty of the song. Either an accompaniment alone, or a vocal selection, I forget reality. I become the artist, I become the storyteller. Whether about a heartbreak or about a fantasy, I am gone. The author takes me, becomes me. And somehow, there is enough of me still there, still there to realize how enjoyable it is. How nice it is to isolate and shut out the world.

When I play, it's surreal. I don't worry about the arguing that goes on behind me. I don't worry about the essay I need to write. It's just me, the piano, and the music. That's all there is, and that's all there needs to be. I take a deep breath. There they go again. There I go again.